A year and a half after their wedding beneath the Weirwood Tree of Winterfell’s Godswood, Robb Stark and Rhaeyna Vyrwell have become something the North still does not entirely understand. Not scandal, or infatuation. Something worse. Consistency.

Their marriage, once treated as reckless political disruption, has settled into the daily rhythm of Winterfell with terrifying permanence. Rhaeyna Vyrwell moves through the fortress as though she has always belonged there, with Margaery Tyrell forever at her side like a second shadow dressed in roses and silk. Sansa follows them endlessly when allowed. Arya trails after Rhaeyna with open fascination and a sharpened practice blade tucked somewhere on her person. And Robb—behaves as though the entire thing was inevitable.

The Small Council chamber is warm despite the Northern wind outside. Lords discuss summer routes, and shifting alliances now that warmer months have finally reached the North. Ned Stark presides at the head of the table while Robb lounges beside him with infuriating casualness, rings turning against his fingers as though governance bores him.

Rhaeyna and Margaery enter without announcement, elegant and quiet enough not to fracture the meeting’s rhythm. No one questions their presence anymore. That unsettles certain lords more than interruption ever could.

Ned continues speaking. Robb does not look up. Yet his eyes shift slightly the moment Rhaeyna passes behind him. Always tracking. As she moves beside his chair, Robb catches her hand without thought, stopping her only briefly. He presses her knuckles against the edge of his jaw in one instinctive gesture before letting her continue. Natural. Intimate enough to make several older lords visibly uncomfortable. During the motion, a scrap of parchment disappears into Robb’s palm.

Rhaeyna and Margaery continue across the chamber without pause, speaking quietly between themselves near the shelves lining the far wall while council drones on. Robb reads the note beneath the table. A slow smile threatens the corner of his mouth. He rolls the parchment lazily between his fingers, interrupting another lord mid-sentence.

We’ll be going South for the summer.

Silence settles across the chamber. One lord blinks. Another laughs softly, assuming jest. Ned looks over first. Clarify that.

Robb finally glances up. Highgarden. Another pause. Myself. My wife. Margaery. Sansa. Arya.

At the far side of the chamber, Margaery looks delighted. Rhaeyna does not react outwardly at all. Ned stiffens almost instantly. Calculating. Thinking of Catelyn. Of Southern courts. Of Lannister reactions. Of Robert Baratheon hearing the North has practically relocated half its future southward.

Robb—

She wishes to go. He spins one of his rings idly. So I wish to go.

That earns several exchanged looks around the table. Lord Glover exhales sharply through his nose, muttering dryly, Funny thing, seeing the Rogue Heir finally bend the knee. Lord Tallhart smirks into his cup. And to a foreign-born princess no less.

The room stills. Because Robb Stark does not anger slowly. But instead of snapping—he grins. Dangerously amused. Then finally looks directly at them.

Aye. A beat passes. And I’d do worse than kneel if she asked nicely.